Chapter 18

A Worthy Adversary

"The next best thing to a trusted comrade is a worthy adversary."- Mishaxhi, Akaviri military commander and philosopher. Quote from his book, "Thoughts from a katana's edge." Original writing date estimated 1E 1263. First surviving copy dated 1E 1574.

The smothering heat and fat lazy flies reminded Aela of her childhood. The intense scent of fear Falkreath's citizens emitted did not.

Aela grimaced as another drop of sweat dripped through her eye, once again grateful she'd left her fur cloak behind. She preferred the tundra's proud chill to this sweltering, sticky mess, despite growing up here. It seemed that because her mother had preferred southern Skyrim, Aela was destined to constantly revisit it, though she hoped Hircine would spare her such a future.

She shook her head dismissively, disgusted with herself for allowing something so trivial as weather to bother her. She was here for a reason and that reason was not to sift through old memories.

Aela stood a respectful distance from the famous Falkreath graveyard, her head bowed somberly. So many warriors, heroes, and soldiers lay buried within that earth, including a few she had known. However, Aela wasn't there to mourn the dead, at least not in the traditional sense. Instead, she watched as the remains of a little girl were buried while a mother wept and a father barely contained his grief. Old Runil, the Altmer priest of Arkay, was doing his best to provide comfort to the now childless couple but he himself was clearly shaken by the girl's death.

In the past, witnessing something like this would have broken her, reducing Aela to a blubbering mass as the memory of her own losses flooded her mind. She was stronger now and could bear the whips and arrows of fate with stoic resolve.

"Lord Arkay will hold Lavinia in his gentle embrace," Runil said softly, gripping the man's shoulder tightly. "He will shelter her in Aetherius until you are reunited once more." His eyes watered with repressed sorrow, "There, there is no more pain or suffering, no more death. She is at peace now." He looked at the fresh grave mournfully before turning back to the father, "While we can never know the meaning of the gods' actions, we can take comfort in their control. Your daughter will see you again."

"Let it be." Aela muttered quietly. While Hircine would always be her patron she could certainly appreciate the comfort a good priest of Arkay could provide, and Runil was one of the best. The old elf always found time to provide a listening ear and comforting shoulder for those suffering. He'd been there for Aela many years ago and was still providing that for others, a faithfulness she greatly admired.

Aela stood alone under the pines, globs of sweat causing her warpaint to run. The flies buzzed around her head, occasionally biting, but she remained still.

The priest of Arkay shared a few more words with the grieving couple before turning from the graveyard. Aela waited for the elderly Mer to return to his cabin before approaching the couple. She made no effort to disguise her footsteps, approaching slowly so as not to startle them. As the man turned to face her, she held her hands up in a non-threatening gesture. "My name is Aela the Huntress. Be assured, I mean you no harm."

The man turned away, gazing down at the little patch of dirt that now held his daughter. "I'm Mathies, and you couldn't hurt me, not any more." His voice cracked with sorrow and he began shaking violently. He wrapped his arm around his wife, pulling her tight against his side. Mathies could hold his pain in no longer, breaking out in rasping sobs as tears ran freely down his face. His whole body shook, heaving from the pain of his sorrow.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Alea said rather blandly, feeling it to be the most appropriate under the circumstances. She'd never been good with people's feelings. Folding her hands behind her back, Aela gently felt the tip of her bow, something she always understood and could rely on. The weapon was more friend to her than most people she knew.

Mathies snorted darkly. "Yeah, you're sorry, Runil's sorry, everyone's sorry!" His words became increasingly venomous and the shaking in his body became more aggressive. "Everyone talks about 'my loss' like it was a tender thing. Like Lavinia passed away in the night, or died of some wasting disease." He closed his hands into fists, snarling out, "but that's not true. My daughter was butchered! Ripped to shreds in the prime of her life! Where's the sense in that?"

Phrasing her next statement as carefully as possible, Aela asked, "If I may, how did your daughter die?" Her expression was one of attempted sympathy, a trait she'd never been good with.

"How did she die?" Mathies responded, voice deathly quiet. "It was Sinding, a worker of mine. Seemed an okay sort, never had trouble with him before. One day, while my daughter was playing in the fields he..." Mathies' voice broke and he paused, trying to gather his words, "He transformed into some sort of monster and tore her to pieces. We found him, sitting in that field, covered in my daughter's blood, a vacant look on his face. He didn't even deny that he did it!"

"Where is Sinding now?" Aela probed, finally discovering who she needed to confront.

The father finally turned to face her, craning his neck so he could meet the Huntress' gaze. "In the Jarl's dungeon. He won't even execute the bastard! He gave me some speech about Sinding's 'condition', and lack of evidence!" He turned back towards the gravestone, gazing down silently. "Where's the justice we've been promised? My daughter is dead, and her killer still draws breath." Mathies sunk into a depressed quiet, his body becoming still. His wife had long ago exhausted her grief, catatonic, and unblinking at his side.

"I will get you your justice," Aela said with an inflection no different than commenting on the weather. Without waiting for Mathies' reply, she walked off.

My intuitions were indeed from Lord Hircine, there is a rogue werewolf in Falkreath. He must be dealt with swiftly, for both my Lord's sake and for the Companion's honor.

"Why are we riding towards this far away shrine instead of using the perfectly good temple in Whiterun?" Lydia asked Hammel with an edge of impatience. She'd been quietly riding alongside him without speaking for some time, but made her disapproval quite clear.

The road to Winterhold from Whiterun was pleasant enough, the horses moving at a methodical pace. Both riders were wrapped in fur cloaks, enhancing their innate Nordic resistance to the cold and keeping them comfortable. Winterhold was named for a reason and Hammel intended to be ready.

"Because," he responded without flair, "Azura is called the 'Mistress of Fate' for a reason. This shrine is the center of her worship in Skyrim. With so much changing around me and in my life, I need her guidance."

Plus, I'm still unsure of who I am. Am I a good man, or not? Was Saadia right about me? Or was that a lie too?

"So you go to a Daedric Princess," Lydia snorted. "Did you bother asking Talos first?"

"I did. But visions are not usually his way, actions are." Hammel gazed down the road, looking for other travelers. Aside from himself and his housecarl there was none. Snow began falling gently from the gray skies above, a sure sign they were heading in the right direction.

He thought back to what Kodlak had offered. The chance to join the Circle was a childhood dream, an opportunity he was grateful for. Yet Saadia, and the idea of being Dragonborn, still gripped him. He was unsure of his future, wondering about what path to take, where to focus his attentions, to whom to give his loyalties. If he had chosen to be honest with himself, he would see that he was afraid. Fortunately, he managed to bury that fear deep in his mental vault where it belonged.

While drinking in the tavern several nights ago, he'd heard tales of a shrine Skyrim's Dunmer had built for Azura, located in the mountains south of Winterhold. Hoping the goddess would offer him a vision, Hammel, accompanied by his faithful housecarl, began a pilgrimage to find it. Lydia made no attempt to disguise her feelings of disgust. Enough time unpacking the Saadia/Kematu debacle made it clear that Lydia would never hide her opinion. If she thought his idea was foolish she told him, and if she thought he was being an ass she let him know. She'd shown him mercy by not laying on a thick "I told you so" after he'd returned from turning over Saadia, but her attitude made it clear that if she'd been listened to he could have avoided all the heartbreak.

I should have listened to Lydia then, should I listen to her now? Should I even bother with this pilgrimage?

Hammel had initially wondered if her snarking would bother him, but it hadn't so far. He was never one for ass-kissing or sycophantic behavior. He was pleased with her backbone and mostly glad for her opinions, even when suffering a crisis of faith. She'd more than proved her loyalty back in Swindler's Den when she was willing to die to protect him even after making it obviously clear she didn't agree with his decision.

She can make as many jokes and quips as she likes if she'll bleed beside me.

"How does a Nord warrior become a fervent worshiper of Azura, my Thane?" Lydia asked casually, looking around and seeing nothing of interest, "Since we are going to be in each other's company for the foreseeable future we might as well get to understand each other."

Hammel grasped the dragon's tooth necklace between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing it reflectively. Beneath it hung his amulet of Talos and symbol of Azura, marking his affiliation for all Mundus to see. "When my mother was just a little girl," he began, voice drifting off with the wind, "she loved the night sky. She was captivated by the stars, the constellations, and, most of all, the moons." He faded into his memories, no longer seeing his housecarl but the ghost of a thin young woman long gone. He could see her smile, missing teeth and all, and felt the warmth of her embrace. "She was born in Morrowind, I think. A slave in a land that wasn't hers, surrounded by people who weren't hers. Before she'd even entered her teenage years several of Azura's worshipers showed my mother some kindness, teaching her the Queen of Dawn's ways." Gripping the reins tighter, Hammel pressed onward, physically and metaphorically, trying not to be dragged down the hole of memory that threatened to swallow him.

"As a slave girl with nothing, the idea that someone was watching over her threads of fate, controlling her destiny, and protecting those who worshiped her, struck a chord with Elliana, my mother. That's when she became a follower."

Gripping his own amulet of Azura for emotional support, Hammel half-expected Lydia to comment. Unexpectedly, she did not, listening with an almost sympathetic look on her pretty face, entranced by his tale.

Hammel's attention remained on the road ahead, not dwelling on Lydia's expression. "I don't know the details, but at some point her owner's mansion was attacked by a rival family. During the chaos she managed to escape and bought passage to Solstheim with the few goods she'd looted during the attack. She lived on that Island for some time. Eventually, someone to whom I owe a great debt, took pity on my mother and paid for her passage to Skyrim. I have no face to put with the name, but, if Azura wills it, they will one day know my gratitude."

"My father once said random acts of kindness have repercussions we can never know and that they define us more than any other action we may take." Lydia's philosophy caught Hammel off guard. He hadn't expected such musings from her.

That's an arrogant thought. Hammel, you truly are a pompous ass. Shouldn't most warriors be philosophers?

"Then your father was both wise and correct," Hammel responded with a slight smile, still refusing to loosen his grip on his amulet. "When my mother finally arrived in Solitude she had nothing. So, being a young woman with no education or prospects, she did the only thing she could to support herself. Sometime later I was born with no knowledge of who fathered me. You can fill in the details yourself."

He could hear the taunting of "whoreson!" in the back of his mind, louder than it usually was. He rushed the rest of the story, refusing to dwell on what he was saying. These events happened to someone else's mother, he was just a chronicaller. "She taught me all she could, raised me, looked after me, and treated me right. I had a decent life, considering the fates of many whoresons. She was murdered by a client, who, as far as I know, has never been charged with anything."

That's Imperial justice for you, they had better things to do with your time.

"After that, I lived on the street, fighting for survival. Eventually I tried to pick the pocket of a Legate who saw something in me. I joined the Legion and made something of my life." He paused, gathering his thoughts. Lydia, recognizing his need to catch his breath after such a confession, remained silent.

"Why do I cling to Azura? Because she clung to me. When my mother was gone and I was freezing my ass off in the gutter of an unsympathetic town I could feel her watching over me. That's your answer."

He turned to face her, "I'm sorry, that was more than I intended," Hammel turned back towards the horizon, trying to flee into it. "I've never told anyone that much about me. Not even Saadia, maybe deep down I knew I couldn't trust her."

"Thank you for trusting me, my Thane." Lydia's tone lacked even a hint of sarcasm. She sounded almost sorry for him.

They rode on in awkward silence for a few miles before Lydia finally broke the ice. "I will say that, for a whoreson, you've done quite well for yourself." She wrinkled her nose, "You've even won the services of Skyrim's greatest housecarl."

Hammel chuckled darkly. "Well Lydia, thanks for the compliment."

Aela made her way to the longhouse's dungeon. She knew the city well and was deeply motivated, old memories giving all the direction she needed.

The jailer looked her up and down, crossing his bear-like arms across his chest, "So you want to see the prisoner eh?" The words were spat out with bile.

"Yes."

The jailer shook his head, "Mind your hands. He's a slippery one, don't trust him." The jailer withdrew a brass key from his belt pouch in beefy hands. He jiggled it in the lock for a moment, then threw the door open. A damp chill rushed out , as if fleeing the dungeon's confines.

The cell block was unpleasant. On either side of the narrow walkway a few cramped cells stood empty. Damp straw was littered across the cobblestone floor. Darkness hung like a smothering cloak, shattered only by the light streaming in from the jailer's chamber and a single sun-slit above the cell directly across from her, the cell that housed the prisoner.

In the span of a few short minutes, Aela the Huntress, Companion, warrior, and free woman, stood on the opposite side of the bars from Sinding, farmer, monster, and captive. The man was so scrawny that Aela almost mistook him for a scarecrow, a thick stubble covering the portions of his face not blackened by dirt. His dark eyes held a wild look, and his remaining teeth were notably pointed, though yellowed from lack of care. The rags he wore stank, they were tattered, and worm-eaten. The Companion noticed a hunk of cheese and crust of bread remained in the corner, uneaten. The cell itself was like the others except for the small grate in the ceiling above, casting a pitiful stream of light into the damp little room.

Sinding looked up at her from his perch on the floor with an unnervingly steely gaze. He didn't seem to blink. "Do I know you?" His voice came out in a croak, like a dry bullfrog. He shifted from his seat on the floor to his feet, striding into the beam of light. The cell wasn't very large and it smelled more like a privy than a jail. This close to her, Aela could cut through the various scents to smell him, sweat, fear, and animal musk.

Aela shook her head. "No. But I know you, werewolf."

Sinding's expression didn't change. Instead, he sniffed the air before looking at her directly. "It seems I know a little bit more about you than you think." He gripped the bars separating the two of them, sniffing again. "Oh yes," he almost giggled. "How very interesting."

"Answer my question," Aela commanded, voice cold, purposely ignoring his observation. "Why did you do it? You don't seem feral to me."

If you were feral, I would have killed you already.

Sinding gave a dry, disturbing laugh before turning away from the bars. He sat crossed-legged on the floor beneath the little patch of light at the cell's center. "I'm cursed." It was a simple admission, lacking the flair most would employ for such an announcement. "I am, as you said, a werewolf, hardly a unique condition," He looked at Aela before continuing, "As long as I can remember I've been one. Was I born that way, or bit as a child?" He shrugged his scrawny shoulders. "I have no answers for you, I don't think it matters."

After a pause, and a long breath, Sinding continued, "I've always struggled to control my transformations." He snapped his weathered, bony fingers, the crack echoing in the cramped cell, "Sometimes, without warning or reason, I'd transform. It was terrifying, I could lose control at any moment. I knew someday I'd kill someone, so..." he shook his head sadly, not relishing the tale to come, "I stole a Daedric artifact from one of the wilderness cults, the Ring of Hircine." He laughed madly then, hugging his knees to his chest. "I thought it would allow me to control my transformations!" After that outburst he went quiet, the confession hanging in the air as Sinding rocked back and forth.

"I was wrong. Hircine didn't appreciate my theft and cursed the damn ring." He reached into his pocket and held out the ring in his grubby hand. Even in those filthy conditions it sparkled with unnatural light. It was made of polished brass, with a snarling wolf's head in the center.

"My transformations are even more rapid now, and much more frequent. I have no memory of my actions during these incidents, and no power to fight the wolf's call. I become a true monster."

He placed the ring back in his pocket, resting his chin in his hands. "Are you here to kill me or help me?" He asked the words brutally honest, striking like a sword.

"That depends," Aela answered without flair, slowly clenching and relaxing her left hand.

"On what?"

"Whether I think you deserve my help."

He looked her in the eyes and asked, "What gives you the right to determine my fate?" He leaned back, obscuring his face with the shadows.

"Hircine." Her responses were growing terser, as she became less comfortable with the conversation.

"Is that so?" He shook his head, doubting her words. "Well," Sinding said, shifting slightly, "In case you do decide to help, I need to purify the ring." He looked up, gazing out of the skylight. "I have heard there is a white stag in Falkreath's forest. Slaying this great beast will please Hircine. Once I've made the Prince happy, perhaps he will grant me the peace I seek." He shook his head somberly, gazing at the floor. "Or, perhaps he will call a Wild Hunt down on my head. He's a fickle god."

Aela did not respond. She stood there, gazing at the pathetic figure in the cell. A thousand thoughts fought for control as she considered every possible option. Hircine had whispered to her of this creature and a need to deal with it, but he hadn't clarified what that meant. Would she put the silver-tipped arrow in Sinding's forehead? Or aid him in his quest to be free of the curse.

She looked at him through the bars and wondered. Her own life danced by, mentally switching her places with his. The decision was hanging in the balance, Aela not unaware of the similarities between the two of them.

However, fate decided to up the stakes.

Suddenly, Sinding began clawing at his throat. He hunched over, growling like he was about to vomit. A horrific cracking noise echoed through his cell as bones altered. Fur erupted out of his skin as his shirt ripped itself to pieces. His fingernails elongated, rapidly transforming into claws. His head morphed a horrifying snout while a large bushy tail sprouted out from behind.

Without hesitation Aela yanked her bow from her back and drew a silver-tipped arrow. Even as she notched it the beast was moving. Almost faster than the eye could follow, Sinding, still transforming, leaped straight up. Aela's arrow clattered against the wall, missing the werewolf by hairs. Even as she drew a second arrow, an ear-jarring metallic shriek accompanied by falling rubble proved her attempt pointless. Sindring had torn the grate out of the ceiling and escaped through it.

Not pausing to allow the jailer to arrive, Aela dashed up the stairs and through the longhouse, bow in hand. Several of the guardsmen, realizing something was afoot, followed closely behind her, drawing their steel as they went.

She kicked the longhouse door open and dashed into the streets in an attempt to stop the fleeing werewolf. Aela twisted towards the longhouse roof, aiming her bow upward. She managed to catch a brief glimpse of Sinding's figure, bounding impossibly fast across the roof towards the forest. Knowing she'd never hit the fast-moving beast from the ground, Aela held back the shot.

Returning the arrow to its place in her quiver, the Huntress pondered her next step.

What was it Sindring said? A white stag?

Aela headed to the woods without bothering to inform the guards what happened. They could figure out that Sinding had escaped without her. Her responsibility was to bring down the great beast.

The priest was chewier than Nero had expected, bits of him were still stuck between his teeth. The Oblivion Walker flicked his tongue against his two front teeth, trying desperately to get that last bit of flesh free from its prison. Giving up that fruitless endeavour, Nero used a fingernail and wiggled the remains of the priest free. He swallowed the human flesh, determined not to anger Namira whose ring he now wore by wasting any of her banquet.

Cannibalism wasn't the worst thing he had done in his pursuit of power, the dead stare in his dark eyes made that clear. He'd continue in his quest, no matter what it cost.

The breeze grew colder in his presence. A hungry wolf approached the pale man and his horse, growling from the brush. However, after a moment, the animal scampered away, preferring to starve rather than die at Nero's hands. This was an expected outcome, Claudius Nero had that effect on most beasts.

His whole body was coiled like a serpent, ready to strike his enemies down without hesitation. He rode silently towards Dawnstar, and his next prize, with the precision of a Dwarven robot.

Mounted on a particularly sickly mare, riding a respectable half-pace behind him, was Eola, the sycophant servant of Namira who'd begun worshiping the ground he walked upon after eating one priest. He ignored her praises, admiration, and pointless flirtations. He'd already gotten what he needed from her, but if she insisted on following him he would put her blade and spells to use.

Eola was a Breton, a pretty one, with rich brown hair tied into a messy bun. She was slight but carried a presence far beyond her diminutive stature, this was due to two things. The first of these was her eyes. One was perfectly functional, a dark blue orb dancing with the flames of madness. The other was a milky white blob, permanently damaged in some battle long forgotten, the scars doing much to damage an otherwise beautiful face.

While the eyes were obvious, the other was more subtle. Her teeth. They were stained yellow by countless horrific meals and her breath smelled of corpses and earth.

"Do you have a plan, Champion of Namira?" Her voice was like silk, seductive and smooth, promising pleasure, and peace. But Claudius knew better, he'd tasted her kisses and experienced her bed after the ritual dinner back in Markarth that won him that title. There was no peace to be found in the arms of the cannibal, and they both knew it. Granted, there was none to be found within his either. He was not a pleasant man.

"I do," he responded firmly, reaching down to grasp his patron's mace in an iron grip. The ring of Namira's deathly chill was felt even through his glove, though the power filling his limbs with unearthly stamina was more than worth the pain. Eola's irritations could have been prevented with one quick swing of his mace. But Nero was no patron of Mehrunes Dagon and wouldn't cause destruction purely for its own sake, he was more cunning than that. Eola was a useful pawn on his road to power. As long as she remained loyal, and useful, her head would remain attached.

"May I hear it, Champion?" She rolled the question off her tongue like a maiden begging for a boy's love. It was a deception because she was a dangerous beast, unpredictable, and savage, as quick to roast a man alive with her staff as speak to him. Still, Claudius did not fear her. Claudius did not fear any mortal.

"In time," he responded casually, spurring his horse onward to Dawnstar. Outright destruction would please Dagon, it would even please Eola, though Nero expected more subtly from Namira's chosen.

Though she called him champion because of his actions in Markarth, he did not directly serve the Mistress of Decay any more than he served Clavicus Vile, or Boethiah. He paid homage to Molag Bal, calling him his true lord, but Nero served Bal in the way the Daedric Prince would find most compelling, by acquiring power. Daedric artifacts were imbued with that power, physical manifestations of unholy might, and he would possess them all. Eola called him "Oblivion Walker," and she was right to do so. It was his destiny to be the one who walked Oblivion's waters, and struck down the mightiest man of his generation, whoever that man would reveal himself to be.

The pair rode on, drawing closer to the unsuspecting town and a darker destiny, one Claudius Nero intended to grasp with both hands.

Skyrim's tundra was truly beautiful at night. The flickering light from their campfire wasn't enough to dim the great stars above which shone down on Hammel and Lydia. After a long day of traveling, the pair had found a flat spot on the tundra, pitched the tent and let the horses graze. Lydia was cooking dinner over the fire, using Hammel's cast-iron pan despite his insistence that he could cook. She simply snorted at that and unpacked some of the salted food stuff. The sizzling of salted horker strips, and the chirping of various bugs was the only noise, as the pair had exhausted all conversation during the day's travel. With nothing else to do, Hammel lay on his back, a blanket rolled up to serve as a pillow. The noises faded away as he gazed up at the constellations and mused.

The Lady was bright in the sky, looking down at him just as she had the day he was born. She was bold and warm, no matter how many impossible miles away she was.

How small he was in the cosmos, Dragonborn or not! Did the vast stars even notice the mortals on Nirn? Did they care? Or were they so far removed that they couldn't care about the suffering of Men and Mer? He'd been told otherwise, that Azura and the Aedra did watch over them and did help goodly mortals. He'd certainly felt the benefit of prayer at shrines, he'd been healed by priests, and of course, his mother had told him that their destinies were guided by the stars. The Lady would keep him whole, she'd said, that's why he hadn't gotten sick as often, why he healed so quickly from injuries. He wasn't sure the stars had anything to do with it but Elianna Greymist had believed.

"What birthsign were you born under, Lydia?" Hammel asked, gazing up at the stars, almost unaware that he'd spoken. The smell of fried horker wasn't entirely pleasant, no matter how many peppercorns Lydia threw in the pan.

"The Warrior," she didn't look up, turning the horker over and adding a few of their biscuits into the pan, hopefully sucking up the fat would give said biscuits a meatier taste. "No big surprise there." Seeming satisfied with her work, Lydia looked up, her smile flickering in the firelight. "Dinner's almost ready. Trust me on the horker meat, the blubber gives it a nice, sweet taste. It's nothing like whale, despite the similar appearance."

"Good, I've had whale and didn't care for it." Memories of eating whale steaks, an unpleasant but cheap meat available to most people in Solitude, filled his mind. The mostly tasteless, rubbery, meat was filling but another reminder of his impoverished childhood. "I couldn't believe how instant you were about the horker."

"You've got to learn to trust me!" The words were delivered with a jesting tone and knowing smile. Lydia flipped the biscuits before gingerly poking the horker. "Almost done," she murmured, scrunching her nose. "Why do you care about my birthsign? Which are you?"

"The Lady."

"Huh."

"Unimpressed?"

"Just surprised, but you didn't answer my question."

Hammel sat up, looking into the pan and admitting that it did, in fact, look better than he was expecting. He hadn't answered her and wasn't sure why he'd even asked, "I was told that our birthsigns can affect us. You are a great warrior, Lydia. Was it because of your training, or the stars?" His tone was reflective, somber, but seemingly unaware how he'd nearly insulted her.

"I did work pretty hard at it," she responded, pulling the horker and biscuits from the pan, "I had good training and better teachers. Maybe the gods and stars did have something to do with my skill." She paused, "It doesn't have to be one or the other, right? Besides, it's comforting to assume someone is watching out for us, even giving little bits of help along the way." She handed him a plate, the two slabs of fried horker leaking juice and the biscuits smelling delicious, "Now enough philosophising, eat up."

He had to admit that Lydia was right about the horker. It was fatty, but strangely sweet, the biscuits absorbing much of the flavor and sweetness, giving him the hearty boost he needed after such a long day. The flavor paired nicely with the mead.

After eating his meal, and thanking Lydia for her service, his gaze returned to the stars. He wasn't sure which possibility was true, if they were being watched over or not, he wasn't sure which he wanted to be true.

He was still pondering it as he drifted off to sleep within the tent.

It was his old home back in Solitude, the room that had been his whole life. Strangely, his bed was too small, his feet were sticking out over the end.

She was next to him on the bed, though notably smaller than he was. Her pretty but tired features, stringy blonde hair, and crooked smile filled him with a sense of warmth he wasn't expecting.

"Hello Hammel," she said, "It's been far too long."

"Hello mother," he said. "I've missed you."

She hugged him, putting her head against his chest. Then he realized the truth, he was a full-grown man, but she was as she was during his childhood. She looked smaller, and frailer than he remembered. He pulled her into his arms and held her tightly, eyes wet with grief. "I never forgot you, mother," he told her, struggling to keep his voice level.

"I know you didn't, Hammel, you've always been a good boy." She patted his back, and snuggled in, she was now younger than him, he'd aged, she had not. In a strange way he'd become a parent to her.

"This is a dream," he said, something they both knew to be true.

"She sent me, my son," Elianna said, her voice pained, "I don't have much time." She pulled herself away from his chest, looking up into his face, her deep blue eyes mirroring his own. "You'll meet someone soon, someone who wants to take your life. He's a dark man, a dangerous man." She took his hand and held it squeezing with all her strength, "Trust the priest, beware the dark man."

He didn't understand what she meant, but he nodded. "I will mother, I'll listen to Azura's warnings."

"I love you, Hammel."

"I love you too."

He woke up sweating, body wracked with pain. Lydia was looking into the tent, barely visible in the fading embers of the fire. "Are you alright, Hammel? I heard screaming."

He rested on his arms, sucking in air. After a moment, the words he managed to get out were, "Just a dream."

"A bad one?" Lydia's concern was soft spoken and genuine.

"I don't know." It was the most honest answer he could give.

"Get some sleep, my thane, we have a long way to travel tomorrow."

Indeed they did.